


Pretty in Pink

by yekaterina



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: 1980s Maine, F/F, butch behaving in femme clothes and vice versa ala that one anon, music teacher trixie and librarian katya
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 11:59:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13570155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yekaterina/pseuds/yekaterina
Summary: “Hey!” The woman's voice is sing-song and at Trixie's back now. She claps Trixie on the shoulder. “I dig the references. Wow, that’s a soft sweater.”Trixie manages a grin, looking back at her. The grin spreads wider when the woman squeezes her shoulder, pinching the pink fabric between her fingers, before sliding her hands into her cardigan's pockets. Trixie nods at it, eyeing the brown and green argyle pattern. It felt like cashmere under her palm, worn-in, like she inherited it or picked it up somewhere. "Yours is soft too."





	Pretty in Pink

**Author's Note:**

> so this is the music teacher/librarian thing! it's heavy on the 80s geek culture because they're both huge geeky dykes in this so expect a lot of references. i'm experimenting with chapter length! this is fun. i feel a little naked, a little like i'm going fucking wild posting something that is below 5k but really... that's how most things work around here, so it's all good.
> 
> [here's](https://open.spotify.com/user/werewolvse/playlist/01T5lXvlgKHeFSKzsqYK2Z?si=Osqa2H-cSki_qNa4IFQE6g) the playlist because the 80s... it's gay. shoutout to [this](http://beatricemattel.tumblr.com/post/167795784503/trixies-shoulders-look-massive-with-that-small) [person](http://beatricemattel.tumblr.com/post/167795991143/i-mean-when-she-wears-a-massive-hair-and-that-make) as noted in the tags.

Trixie stands in the middle of a group of chattering children, towering over them as she does over every class, even her fifth graders. She spreads out her arms and shakes her hands around, the plastic beaded bracelets on both of her wrists clacking together. She isn’t going to yell, but she knows the volume isn’t going to be suitable for a library.

“Can everybody just chill?”

“What does chill mean, Mrs. Mattel?” It’s a small voice, the smallest one in the group, the one that hits the highest notes during class when it’s confident enough to do so. It isn’t often. Trixie looks down and meets a pair of sad brown eyes.

“It means we all need to use our quiet voices. And it’s Ms. Mattel, Rhonda,” Trixie doesn’t say it unkindly, rather she speaks as softly as she can, and she squats down to be at eye-level with Rhonda. At this height, she can see vanilla pudding stains on the corners of her mouth. Trixie wipes them away with her thumbs. “It’s important to remember that.”

“I always get them mixed up,” Rhonda frowns at her Mary-Janes and Trixie frowns to match. She’s a tough case, the oddball in the class, the one the boys pick on and the girls ignore. Trixie does her best to be delicate and reassuring to her, reprimand the bullies, but she constantly worries over the setbacks; the times in class where she has to raise her voice to a level neither she nor Rhonda is comfortable with.

“I know, sweetie. Just practice, it’ll come with time,” Trixie rises up and takes the child’s hand in hers. She tells the other children to stay within the borders of the big circle carpet, and to talk quietly amongst themselves, that she and Rhonda are going to find out where the librarian is.

The duo winds their way through the sections that are not too far away from the rest of the class, peering into the gaps between bookshelves, but they’re walking in circles. Trixie is growing more impatient and concerned that the children must be up to something by now.

She’s about to express her concern when an awful scratching sound comes from the furthermost corner of the room. She throws a hesitant look down at Rhonda and earns a halfhearted shrug in response. Trixie’ll take it as a go-ahead. They leave the class behind.

Trixie leans around the corner of a bookshelf and sees a pair of legs sticking out of a large canvas bin, two brown moccasins digging into the carpet floor. The shoes are the source of the sound and Trixie absolutely needs it to come to a stop.

“Excuse me?” Trixie lets go of Rhonda’s hand and pats her shoulder, a gentle order to stay put. The moccasins stop moving against the carpeting, but the person doesn’t come out. Trixie takes cautionary steps forward and bends over slightly to peer down into the bin, and she rests a hand on the person’s back. “Are you alright?”

“One second,” The person is a woman and Trixie laughs at her dry tone. The woman is stretching towards a book just out of her grasp, her fingers flexing in her desperation. Trixie is curious to find out why she’s chosen this method, one that is clearly not working and seems to have not been for quite some time. The curiosity keeps Trixie from helping her.

She stares at the short, buzzed hairs on the back of the woman’s head; the cropped locks on top of it hang in curls that bounce around as she wriggles in deeper, her fingertips just grazing the book’s spine.  Trixie's fingers remain still on hers.

The woman shivers under her hand and clears her throat. “I’m fine, just rooting around.”

“Sure,” Trixie leans forward more, in an effort to get a better look. She can only make out her profile, but doesn’t half mind that; the woman has a sharp nose that is wrinkling as is the rest of her face. The veins on her temples bulge as she strains to reach the book.

“Are you the new librarian?” Rhonda asks. She is still a couple feet back, half-hidden behind the corner of a bookshelf. Trixie suddenly remembers what they had spent precious minutes doing, minutes that could’ve been used to break down the layout of the public library into terms her students could understand.

She can make out the hour on the black calculator watch on the woman's wrist and sighs. She'll have to cut into her lesson on reading music so there will be enough time for lunch at the playground down the street.

“Yup,” The librarian responds in a warmer tone than she used for Trixie, who was about to repeat the question. She shuts her mouth in surprise, unbelieving that the woman could hear Rhonda’s tiny voice. Trixie smiles back at the child, who grins wider than she has all week.

Trixie gives her a thumbs-up with the hand not keeping the woman from tipping completely into the bin.

“I hid the old one in here, somewhere," The woman says.  Both Rhonda and Trixie giggle at that and Trixie can feel the woman relax under her hand until she starts to squirm in what Trixie assumes is her effort to extract herself.

"Do you need," Trixie doesn't finish her question, but rather goes ahead in curling her hands under armpits to pull her out.  The woman laughs for a beat, sharp and awkward. Trixie yanks her out less gently than she'd like, in order to have the contact be as non-prolonged as possible.

Trixie sets the woman down and hops backward to give her space. In her enthusiasm, her bracelets clack and her glasses slip down her nose. She nearly topples into the bookshelf behind her, but the woman hops forward to grab her by her wrists and keep Trixie on her feet.

Her short, golden-blonde curls fall over her glasses, tortoiseshell where Trixie's are translucent pink. The woman laughs again, but now it is an airless sound.  She lets go of Trixie to smooth her hands down her cardigan and fixes her shirt collar to be flat and tucked in.

“Sorry, hello!" Her voice remains kind like it was for Rhonda. She clears her throat again. "Are you Mattel and her visiting class? Where’s the rest of 'em?”

Trixie rubs her wrists idly and turns to look at Rhonda. The child nods, spins around and heads towards the entrance. She returns moments later, not hiding behind the bookshelf this time, to tell Trixie the class is missing.

Trixie rushes forward to stand next to her. She catches glimpses of neons and plaids, blurs of children disappearing into nooks and crannies. She sighs again. "These eight-year-olds are all Gollums. Not you, Rhonda. You're a nice little Frodo."

“Hey!” The woman's voice is sing-song and at Trixie's back now. She claps Trixie on the shoulder. “I dig the references. Wow, that’s a soft sweater.”

Trixie manages a grin, looking back at her. The grin spreads wider when the woman squeezes her shoulder, pinching the pink fabric between her fingers, before sliding her hands into her cardigan's pockets. Trixie nods at it, eyeing the brown and green argyle pattern. It felt like cashmere under her palm, worn-in, like she inherited it or picked it up somewhere. "Yours is soft too."

"I have to corral my kids, but..." Trixie continues. She shakes her finger in thinking then doubles back to the bin. She bends over and down into it, using her long limbs to her advantage. In one swoop she picks up the book. It is a weathered paperback copy of a companion novel to _Dungeons & Dragons._

Trixie blows off the dust on the cover before placing it in the woman's waiting hands. She thanks her quietly and Trixie huffs a laugh.

"Don't break yourself," Trixie says softly. The woman nods and Trixie takes Rhonda's hand again. "We have a busy day ahead of us."

The librarian hugs the book to her chest then adjusts her glasses. She heads in the opposite direction, towards the double doors in the back that reads _Staff Only_ and she speaks over her shoulder. "I need to get my stuff for the presentation. Just some knick-knacks! Then I'll be at the information desk."

 

 

Trixie learns along with the children that the woman's name is Ms. Z ( _but for any overachievers, they can try out pronouncing Zamolodchikova_ ). Ms. Z replaced Mrs. Davenport as head librarian last week after her move to the big city. What with the hectic organizing of donations for the city orphanage, the human error of not informing the school of the switch had been made.

Trixie is the only one wide awake during the introduction. She gently nudges one dozing student's shoulder with the toe of her Ked shoe. At his grimace, she makes a mimicking face back at him. He giggles before sitting up.

"Ms. Mattel?" Trixie sees Ms. Z with a hand on her hip, biting down on a smile. Trixie is subject to more giggles from the class. Ms. Z appears to be stifling one herself. "Is there a problem?

"What? No," Trixie unfolds her arms and locks her hands behind her back. "No problem. I'm glad to be learning all about you and not at about all the library."

There is another chorus of laughs, sprinkled in with a few _ooh's_. Trixie shushes her students. She sees Rhonda sporting a wide grin at Ms. Z's feet and Trixie can't help but sport one as well. 

"Come up here," The librarian urges, waving towards herself with one hand. In the other she is precariously holding the chalk that she has been using to doodle on the portable chalkboard she wheeled out. "I wasn't given the 411! I have some questions for you and your gremlins. Where are your uniforms?"

Trixie makes her way to the front, stepping with caution around countless pairs of tiny shoes. The boy seated beside Rhonda sticks up his hand and Ms. Z calls on him. “Our school doesn’t have uniforms.”

“Don’t all prep schools wear uniforms?” Ms. Z asks. She rolls the stick of chalk around in her palm, coating her pale skin in white, with bits of dust drifting down onto her moccasins. Rhonda is one step ahead of Trixie in doing something, using the sleeve of her windbreaker to wipe her shoes.

Ms. Z spares a glance downward and gives her a soft _thank you._  Trixie sits down hard on the edge of the information desk.

“We’re not a prep. We’re public," Another child clarifies, chewing on a crayon. Trixie points at her and she takes it out of her mouth. "It's Castle Rock Elementary.”

“Oh. No way? I didn’t know New England had anything besides prep schools. That’s awesome, I love that,” Ms. Z says all at once. She draws her attention back to Trixie. Rhonda's finished wiping her shoes, now brown with a dusty white finish. Ms. Z pats her on the head for her trouble. “What do you teach, teach?”

“Music. We’re doing a unit on Mozart, right now. It’s fun," Trixie pauses to shrug. "But I go over him every year. Upstairs shot down my suggested unit on Russian composers, which I guess is understandable, given.”

“Nothing turns kids from Maine into dirty commies faster than some fucking hardcore Tchaikovsky," Ms. Z shakes her head as she speaks. "I’m not surprised at all.”

Trixie’s eyes widen at her language and she looks around to gauge the faces of the children. None of them are reacting and Trixie allows the comment to register fully. She has to muffle a raucous laugh with the back of her hand.

The librarian joins in, her shoulders hunching and her head almost burrowing into Trixie’s stomach. Trixie bats at her with the back of her hand to get her to calm down so she can as well. The children begin to laugh along and Trixie has to step away from Ms. Z to catch her breath.

"Ms. Mattel, it's noon," One child says. The declaration of time snaps her back into reality. Her laughter dies down abruptly and Ms. Z's does as well. "Can we go to the playground now?"

"One second, guys. I need to confer," At Trixie's choice of word, the woman laughs. Trixie shoots her a look to behave. Ms. Z rolls her eyes and she heads back deeper into the library. Trixie watches her walk away before dragging an accusatory finger through the air at her class.

"With Ms. Z before we leave," Trixie continues. She straightens up and gives the children a stern look. "Stay put, this time. I _mean_ it. You all already owe me page papers on why you felt it was dire to run around the library like animals."

Trixie waves a dismissing hand at Rhonda to let her know that she is excluded from the punishment, then she scans the room behind her to see Ms. Z organizing books on a cart. Trixie smoothes her hair and walks towards her, the muttering of children being overtaken in her ears by the woman's humming of something Trixie can't decipher with each step.

Trixie stands out of her way to her side, waiting patiently for her to finish moving the books around. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to the organization and Trixie holds back from teasing her for it.

“I’m Katya. Yekaterina, if you're a formal woman," The librarian says, all of a sudden. She pauses her work and gives Trixie a serious look that she can already tell won’t have to be taken seriously. Katya crosses her arms over the books and leans closer like they’re sharing a secret. “But don’t tell upstairs.”

“I won’t,” Trixie promises in a voice just as quiet as Katya's. "I'm Trixie.”

They shake hands. Katya slides hers into her sweater pockets and Trixie locks hers in front of her stomach.

“Your kids like you," Katya says with a grin, after a moment. "They think you’re cool.”

“I doubt that!” Trixie's voice raises in a slight shriek. “They’re one of my worst behaved classes. Almost as bad as my fifth graders.”

“No, no. That’s why,” Katya explains. Trixie crosses her arms as Katya goes on. “You’re too cool to be seen as a scary authority figure. They don’t feel as threatened so they play around. Kids are always going to be kids, you know?”

In the sudden quiet after Katya breathes out the end of her sentence, they stand just looking at each other. One of Trixie's shoes digs into the scratchy carpet and she stops her foot's actions before she can expose herself with a high-pitched squeak. Katya coughs once behind her fist.

“That Rhonda girl," Katya starts with a frown, her bushy blonde eyebrows creasing together. "She reminds me of myself when I was her age. The odd one out... They pick on her, don’t they?”

“They do,” Trixie says. She looks back at the children. Rhonda is sitting by herself on the rug and Trixie's jaw tightens as she shakes her head. “She reminds me of when I was a child too. I guess that’s why I’ve latched onto her like I have.”

The two women are quiet again. The creak of the book cart has Trixie's head whipping around to see Katya jump back from where she must have been leaning on it. Trixie covers her mouth as she laughs. Katya rolls her eyes and begins sorting the books all over again. Trixie doubts she needed to be doing so in the first place.

"Are there any more field trips you have coming up?" Katya asks, one of her hands curling around one of the books. Her fingers are snow white against the blood red of a first edition Agatha Christie. Her knuckles are a soft pink, the same shade as the tip of her nose, her cheeks. Her knuckles begin to turn white. Trixie draws her hand from her mouth to run through the curls of her hair.

“No," Trixie says. But her smile returns. Katya’s does as well. The harsh fluorescent ceiling lights in the library reflect off of her glasses and for a moment Trixie is blinded until Katya's head tilts to the side. "But I come here all the time. I have some books I have to return tomorrow, actually."

Katya lets go of the book to grab hold of the handle of the cart. She pushes her shoulders into it to get it to move and the cart glides easily over the carpeting, save for one wonky wheel. Katya shoots Trixie a wink when she walks past her. "That works out perfectly, Trixie."


End file.
